


pressure point

by the_flame_and_hawks_eye



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: A fresh coat of paint to an old piece of work, Angst, F/M, Graphic Description, I'm Going to Hell, I'm Sorry, Kidnapping, Lots of Angst, Mutilation, Rating May Change, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 00:25:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19240108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_flame_and_hawks_eye/pseuds/the_flame_and_hawks_eye
Summary: After the discovery of Riza Hawkeye following her abduction, Edward Elric is left helping Roy pick up the pieces. Her recovery leaves more questions than answers, and they find themselves struggling to come to terms with what precipitates the deeper they delve.





	pressure point

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rewrite of an old fic of mine that I started and finished between 2014-2015 that I figured could use a fresh coat of paint. I've made a lot of changes since then and have improved (I hope) with my style of writing, so I figured what better way to reintroduce this story than on the last day of Royai Week. 
> 
> A word of warning if you choose to continue reading: There will be distinct descriptions of violence, torture, and gore throughout this fic, which may end up resulting in a rating change sometime in the future. If you continue to read, I hope you enjoy! Please let me know any thoughts on pacing, etc., as it's been a while since I've been able to sit down and write again, so there may be a little bit of rust on my keyboard ;)

_ Thump... _

With every breath, Riza’s lungs catch fire; choking her, oxidizing the oxygen her cells crave into shards of agony that penetrate deep into her bones. 

Her body has learned to adapt in the simplest way possible: cessation. But her mind overcomes her body’s newfound willingness to die so that she may live, even if it’s a few moments more. After all, it’s the least she can do for him.

_ Thump thump... _

He who planted within her the seed of life; who had commanded her to continue to live. She had abided by it thrice before, and she carried that notion with her into the pits of this hell.

She breathes out, and another sliver of her life vanishes through her lips. 

_ Thump... _

But... she had failed him, allowing what had blossomed from his charisma and love to wilt. Perhaps beyond repair.

The problem with living, however, is that no matter what: it will not truly end until one’s final breath. And right now, despite her body’s inclination to forgo its fight, her cells still crave even the most infinitesimal amounts of air, refusing to starve themselves until their futile pangs of hunger are eventually quieted by absolute devoidance. They exert their will upon her, and she sucks in a shallow breath, and she once again breathes in fire.

_ Thump thump… _

Daggers of pain bury themselves deep within her viscera, and when she swallows another mouthful of air, the cycle continues unabated until her body crumples to the cold stone floor.

She’s dying. The forced notion of believing she can salvage what she has upon herself is a fallacy, and no amount of believing will be able to change that fact. The fit of gasps that wracked her body eventually calms and the fit subsides, and she is teetering dangerously on the boundary of life and death that she has thus far so carefully maneuvered. 

_ Thump thump… _

Riza’s hand slips clumsily along her aching side, dipping over and below the valleys and peaks her protruding ribs form until her fingers slide into the divot between her ribs and her pelvis. It’s a loose fit. So much more so than when she was in her utmost condition. In fact, she thinks in an almost lackadaisical fashion, she can probably touch the other point of her pelvis, if she tries…

She catches something in her vision’s periphery, watching with breath held as a pair of familiar military-grade boots sauntered toward her. Her vision blurs, then refocuses, but she ultimately closes her eyes, exhaling yet another fragment of her existence.

_ I’m sorry _ , she thinks. For once, it’s her body that overwhelms her mind.  _ I tried. _

_ Thump. _

If she thinks hard enough, she can almost feel his palm resting against her cheek. She knows better than that, though, reminding herself that the fever has played that same trick on her before. Still, if this is what her body wants to believe in its moments last, then so be it.

“ _ I’m sorry _ ,” the apparition whispers. “ _ I never found you _ .”

There’s a familiar ache in his voice that tugs at her heartstrings. One that’s reminiscent of their nights spent in that shared hospital room, the two of them worse for wear. He had apologized relentlessly then, as though  _ he _ had somehow been the one to delay his intervention beneath Central’s streets all those years ago. The thought nearly draws from her a wry snicker. It was just like him to act like that, even though he is not truly here.

Rather than use what remains of her strength to answer, she instead settles into the illusion her delusive mind has conjured. She at least has the sense intact to know that she doesn’t need to answer to a ghost.

_ Thump... _

Though… she can’t shake the feeling of guilt that settles within her pitted stomach, as though refusing to answer it somehow harms the real Roy Mustang. She knows that it’s the poisons in her blood that distorts the distinction, but still… She hopes that he does not mourn. There is still so much at stake, and one life in comparison to the change that is underway is meaningless. Riza knows deep down that he won’t see it this way, but… she can only hope.

Her chest spasms and she chokes back an abrupt sob that has somehow managed to climb its way to the surface.  _ I’m sorry _ , she repeats to herself. 

_ I’m sorry. _

_ I’m sorry. _

Her breath hitches, and the terminal gasps that follow are unproductive and weak. The edge of life and death she has so masterfully teetered on is giving way, and she finds herself in a freefall. The spasms slow, and the effort she had moments before dwindles. Expiring, she breathes out what little remains of her vitality, and her body’s agony finally tempers into nothingness.

_ I’m sorry... _

\---------------------------------------------------

 

“Watch yourselves.”

Edward is jerked from his silent reflection and slowly looks toward the source of the voice. The rest of the men in the packed caravan do, though they do little else. Every movement until this moment has been calculated -precise- to avoid unnecessary stirring, lest they spark the General’s precarious fuse.

Hands folded in front of him, Mustang’s head hangs low and his blackened eyes are hidden by his disheveled fringe. Beneath the curtain of solidness he exudes, Edward knows that a timebomb sits unlit. 

Every mission until this has steadily doused his fuse, submitting the freshly minted General to the whims of those who chose to come between him and his most loyal subordinate. Still, he thinks as he looks away from Mustang as he slips his gloves over his fingers, he knows that beneath the dampened fuse, there still lies untouched kindling with the capacity to spark. He’s seen it.

“Just like before,” he continues as the soldiers tense. “ Our mission is the recovery of a First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye. Any hindrances are to be eliminated.”

Edward’s hands fidget as his eyes fixate themselves on the gun that had been dropped onto his lap minutes before. His stomach ties into knots and he swallows the lump that has settled in the back of his throat. Forgotten, or rather, gone, are the orders of taking into custody anyone other than the Hawk’s Eye. It’s no coincidence that they’ve been dropped around the same time he had been handed a weapon despite objecting. Because by this point Mustang is no longer looking for a fight…

Again Edward is jolted from his thoughts as the soldiers around him hustle to their feet and begin filing out of the caravan. He’s just about to rise as well when the black of Mustang’s jacket flits into his periphery. It’s too late to look away, and their eyes meet. A shudder travels up Edward’s spine as Mustang’s unrelentingly aggressive gaze penetrates his, and after a few moments he turns his head away and back down toward his lap. The encounter lasts for a moment longer before the General continues on his way. Edward waits until a fifth count before rising to his feet and slowly following after.

The moment his boots hit the sand, a voice asks, “You ready, Chief?”

“As ready as last time,” he mutters, watching after Mustang as he slowly climbs the dune they had positioned themselves on. Beyond it, he recalls from their briefing, was an abandoned military outpost used during the Ishvalan War, left years before to be reclaimed by the dust and sand. It had been all but erased from their maps, only left on a few schematics that had been tucked away in Central Command’s archives, part of the few remaining following the destruction resulting from the Promised Day years before. It was from there that a signal had been intercepted that was considered unknown, warily igniting their hope yet again.

Havoc claps a hand on his shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. Edward flashes him a tepid smile before brushing it off and venturing forward to join up with Breda and Fuery as they load their weapons. They both look up, but before either could address him, a sharp crack splits the air. 

He hears Mustang shout moments later and he turns, watching as he vanishes over the top of the sandbank. Without thinking Edward rushes after him, followed closely by Breda and Havoc. When they reached the crest, however, Edward’s steps falter as his mind kicks into overdrive, working to process the scene in front of him. “C’mon,” Breda grunts as he grabs his wrist and pulls him down the hill, “The fucker shot himself! They know we’re here.”

His mind at last catches up with his feet and he falls in-sync with Breda’s steps. A few strides take him past the heavyset Lieutenant and he rips his arm away, taking the lead in front of them. They rush by the nondescript man that lays motionless in the mixture of blood and brain matter pooling around his head and through the door Mustang had thrust open. Edward instinctively slams his eyes shut as a flash of light momentarily fills the room, reopening them moments later to watch as the flames above their heads dissipate. Before the room darkens, however, a subtle movement out of the corner of his eye catches his attention.

“ _ Fullmetal _ !”

Edward has already crossed the room by the time Mustang’s voice reaches him. He does not lose momentum as he skids around the corner and out of their sight. There’s no need to. He can already hear their footsteps thundering behind him. He reaches into his pocket and produces a flashlight as the dark shape he had seen rounds another corner. 

Edward doesn’t consider that his actions are reckless and potentially lethal, especially in light of having lost his alchemy. Instead, he embraces his knee-jerk reaction and gut-feeling that this is indeed what will lead them to Hawkeye, decidedly abandoning any iota of self-preservation for the mission at hand. 

The light captures the outline of the fleeing individual, but he’s unable to make out their features as they vanish down a flight of stairs. Undeterred, he follows closely behind, slipping around the corner to follow, only to stop dead in his tracks as he hits a putrid wall of musk and rot. His throat constricts as he slams his palm over his nose and mouth and involuntarily retches. He swallows a bolus of air, pointing the light in the direction of the fleeing man. Much to his dismay, however, the figure has disappeared. Still, Edward thinks as he takes a step forward, there’s only one other direction they could go as far as he can tell. 

But before he has time to gather himself and resume his chase, he takes notice of his surroundings as his eyes adjust to the lowlight his flashlight has granted him. He turns his head to the side and holds up the light, shining it carefully across the galvanized bars that lined either side of the narrow passageway he has found himself. The beam passes over varying objects on the ground and when he takes a step forward to examine them, his stomach coils. Skeletal remains interspersed in mounds of brown, woven cloth, not too unlike the tunics the Ishvalan people wear.

He swallows the horror that crests in the back of his throat when he realizes how and why they had been there. As he begins to turn the light away, however, something else catches his eye and he returns it to the center of his beam- 

A chill embalms him, and his heart rockets into his throat, stifling the gasp that was to immediately follow. His eyes widen as he uses both hands to steady the beam, half expecting the unforgiving desert to erase a trick of the mind. But, despite this, the familiar blend of blonde and blue military jacket lying motionlessly beyond the bars remains a permanence.

There’s no mistaking it.

“H…” he gathers feebly as he sinks to his knees and reaches for her through the bars. “Hawkeye…”

  
  
  
  



End file.
